He waited five minutes, letting his arms recover, then moved to the dumbbells. Lighter weights this time, focusing on controlled movements rather than raw pressing power.

Lateral raises, bicep curls, tricep extensions.

The exercises he’d watched other students breeze through while he sat on the sidelines, taking notes he’d once again never thought he’d use.

By the time he finished the circuit, his arms felt like overcooked noodles.

[TASK PROGRESS: 1.8%]

He checked the time on his communicator. He’d been at this for just over an hour. The gym had thinned out further while he worked; only two other students remained, both on the far side near the treadmills, neither paying him any attention.

Damon grabbed his bag and pulled out a second vial. The pale blue liquid caught the overhead lights, innocent and unassuming. No one would look twice at a student drinking a recovery potion after a workout.

It was the most normal thing in the world.

They wouldn’t know his system was about to rewrite what the potion did the moment it hit his stomach.

He downed it in one swallow. The minty taste was already familiar, and the bitter aftertaste was less jarring than before.

After learning about its effects, he no longer cared much about it.

[RECOVERY DRAUGHT CONSUMED - F-RANK]

[SYSTEM OVERRIDE ACTIVE]

[MODIFIED EFFECT: ACCELERATED HYPERTROPHY - 4 HOURS]

[ESTIMATED PASSIVE GAIN DURING WINDOW: +0.2%]

"Point two percent," Damon muttered, reading the new line. "You’re predicting it now?"

The system didn’t answer as usual. But the fact that it was calculating estimates meant it was learning, or at least adapting.

The more he used it, the more it seemed to understand his body’s limits and potential.

He wondered what else it could do that he hadn’t discovered yet.

"I should go. Don’t want to seem suspicious."

He packed up quickly. Two vials down, two left. Tomorrow morning, he’d hit the gym again, then use another potion during the midday break.

The cycle was forming in his mind already: workout, potion, rest, progress.

Repeat.

At this pace, he could probably gain somewhere between two to three percent per day if he timed everything perfectly. More if he pushed harder. Even more if he found better potions.

But better potions cost more credits. And his two thousand wasn’t going to last forever if he was burning through four vials a day.

That was a problem for later.

Right now, he had four hours of accelerated growth to capitalize on, and the best thing he could do during that window was eat, sleep, and let his body do the work.

***

The dining hall was nearly empty by the time Damon arrived. Most students had already eaten and retreated to their dorms or the recreation halls. A few stragglers sat at scattered tables, hunched over late meals or cramming topics.

He loaded a tray with whatever was left: grilled chicken, rice, and steamed vegetables. His body needed fuel. The potion was accelerating his muscle growth, but it couldn’t build something from nothing.

"This academy never runs out of food, huh?"

He found a corner table, away from the few remaining students, and ate quickly.

Midway through his meal, his communicator buzzed. It was Lena, but this time she contacted him privately instead of through their usual group chat.

Lena: I heard you were in the gym.

Damon: Yeah, currently eating.

Lena: At this hour?

Damon: Lost track of time.

Lena: You should take care of yourself more.

Damon: I am, don’t be such a worried mess.

Lena: I doubt that. Anyway, do you want to meet tomorrow after class? I want to celebrate your discharge. I didn’t get to do it today since class was busier than I expected.

Damon stared at the message. Celebrate. The word felt foreign, like a language he’d forgotten how to speak.

No one had ever wanted to celebrate anything involving him before, well, anyone other than his own family members. But that was a given.

Damon: Celebrate what, exactly? My incredible ability to not die?

Lena: Yes, actually. That’s exactly what we’re celebrating. My treat. The café outside the east gate. 6 PM. Don’t be late and don’t argue.

Damon: I wasn’t going to argue.

Lena: You were thinking about it. I could tell.

Damon: You can’t "tell" through text.

Lena: I can tell. Six o’clock, Damon. Be there.

He set the communicator down, a faint, unfamiliar warmth settling in his chest. It wasn’t the potion. That much was obvious, but he was also fairly certain it wasn’t exactly love yet.

The last time someone had invited him anywhere that wasn’t with his family, a support group meeting, or a mandatory academic function, he’d been twelve years old. Before the system. Before everything.

"Never would I have ever guessed I’d grow close to her."

***

His room was exactly as he’d left it. The transfer folder still sat unopened on the nightstand. The paper bag with the two remaining vials rested on his desk. His bed was still unmade.

Damon kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling. The system pulsed gently in the corner of his vision, the golden text a steady, reassuring presence.

[TASK PROGRESS: 1.8%]

[MODIFIED EFFECT ACTIVE: 3 HOURS 12 MINUTES REMAINING]

[ESTIMATED PASSIVE GAIN DURING WINDOW: +0.2%]

By the time he woke up tomorrow, he’d be at two percent.

In a single day, he’d doubled his progress from the morning’s session. If he kept this pace, he could hit ten percent by the end of the week. Twenty by the end of the month.

And then what?

What happened when he reached one hundred percent? What did a Sovereign class actually do?

He had theories. The name suggested authority, control. Something that commanded rather than followed. But theories weren’t answers, and the system wasn’t offering any previews.

"Guess I’ll find out when I get there," he muttered.

His eyes grew heavy. The potion was doing its work, his muscles humming with that faint, steady heat, and his body was demanding rest to fuel the growth.

He didn’t fight it.

For the first time in two years, Damon Persival fell asleep willingly without having to worry about his future.

***

The next morning, Damon woke before his alarm.

His internal clock, drilled into him by years of four AM study sessions, pulled him out of sleep at [5:47]. The first thing he did was check the system.

[TASK PROGRESS: 2.1%]

[MODIFIED EFFECT: EXPIRED]

Two point one percent.

He’d been at one point eight when he fell asleep. The system’s estimate had been slightly conservative. He’d gained three-tenths of a percent overnight instead of two.

"Good morning to me," he said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

His body felt different.

Not dramatically. He wasn’t going to look in the mirror and see a new person staring back. But the dull ache in his muscles had faded to a faint, pleasant soreness, and there was a tightness in his arms and chest that hadn’t been there yesterday.

He flexed his bicep, watching the muscle tense beneath the skin. Was it slightly more defined? Or was he just imagining things?

Probably the latter.

But it didn’t matter. The numbers didn’t lie. Two point one percent was two point one percent more than he’d had twenty-four hours ago.

He changed into fresh gym clothes, grabbed his bag with the two remaining vials, and headed out the door.

The morning air was colder than yesterday. Frost crusted the edges of the walkways, and his breath misted in front of his face as he jogged toward the gym.

"Colder than usual today..."

The sun hadn’t fully risen yet, the sky still a deep, bruised purple above the academy’s outer walls.

It was perfect.

The gym would be empty at this hour. Even the most dedicated students didn’t start their workouts until six-thirty.

He pushed through the heavy steel door and found exactly what he’d hoped for: silence. The lights hummed overhead, the equipment sat waiting, and for the next hour at least, this space was his.

Damon started with a warm-up jog on the treadmill. Ten minutes at a steady pace, his legs protesting less than they had yesterday. The recovery potion had done its job, and his body was adapting faster than it had any right to.

After the jog, he moved to the weight bench. He loaded the bar with the same forty kilograms as last night and lay back.

The first set of ten went up more easily than before. Still hard, still burning by the end, but the bar didn’t feel quite so heavy. The second set he finished without his elbows threatening to lock.

The third set he completed with a grunt and an almost uttered prayer, but he completed it.

[TASK PROGRESS: 2.3%]

"Two-tenths," he panted, sitting up. "Same workout, less struggle. Progress."

He moved through the rest of his routine with mechanical precision. Dumbbells, bodyweight exercises, core work. He pushed harder than yesterday, adding an extra rep to every set, an extra set to every exercise.

By the time he finished, the clock on the wall read [6:47], and his shirt was soaked through.

[TASK PROGRESS: 3.0%]

Three percent.

He sat on the weight bench, chest heaving, and stared at the number. Three percent in just over twenty-four hours. At this pace, one hundred percent wasn’t a distant dream. It was a month away. Maybe less if he kept optimizing.

The gym door creaked open, and a pair of support-track students wandered in, their conversation dying as they noticed him occupying the bench.

Damon recognized one of them, a logistics-assigned third-year named Harris who’d once called him "the systemless freak" during a group project.

Harris opened his mouth, probably to make some comment about Damon being in the wrong building, but then he paused. His eyes swept over Damon’s sweat-drenched form, the loaded barbell, the determined set of his jaw.

Whatever he’d been about to say, he swallowed it.

"Morning," Harris muttered instead, steering his friend toward the treadmills.

Damon didn’t respond. He was too busy calculating his progress and finances to respond to a bully.

Two vials left. If he used one after this workout and one after the evening session, he’d be out by tonight. That meant another trip to the store, another eighty credits. He could afford it for now, but the budget was shrinking faster than he’d anticipated.

He needed a more sustainable solution. Better potions yielded better results, but they cost exponentially more.

A D-Rank recovery draught ran two hundred credits minimum. C-Rank was five hundred. The prices only got more exponentially absurd from there.

Maybe Lena would have ideas. She spent more time in the alchemy lab than anyone he knew. If anyone understood how to stretch a potion budget, it was her.

He packed up his gear and headed for the showers. Classes started in an hour, and while it was likely he’d get beaten up again...

At least he knew it wouldn’t stay that way forever.